


What's It Gonna Be

by tianjin



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: <3, F/F, M/M, MAINLY a sprace fic, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, almost all the newsies basically, les is barely there, sarah/kath is minor sorry u guys. its there tho, sprace, theres violence + mentions of blood & stuff so if that triggers u pls take care of urself !! !
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tianjin/pseuds/tianjin
Summary: Spot Conlon's been king of Brooklyn for too long, and nothing lasts in Brooklyn.





	1. no ghost, no fool

**Author's Note:**

> newsies hasnt had a really long sprace fic since like?? 2005?? when did EYDW come out. anyways. so here's my shot at a slow burn sprace fic!! im hoping to update at least once a week, more if i can handle writing 10k words a week lmao (each chapters gonna be about 5k words). mostly sprace but also some javid & minor newsbians (i love them). basically takes place right after the movie ends, but kath replaces denton, and jack isnt in love with kath or sarah. named for shuras #iconic song. most chapter titles are gonna be hayley kiyoko lyrics bc i love her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the days after the strike, doubts arise about Jack Kelly and about Brooklyn.

The newsies acted like nothing had changed after the strike, after Roosevelt, after Jack Kelly disappeared into the horizon. It was better for business if it was that way, if they acted like righteous boys hungry for justice and not food.

Race wasn’t sure about Brooklyn (though he doubted anything would shake the Brooklyn boys or their king), or Flushing, or Woodside, or Richmond, or the Bronx. What he knew was that the Manhattan newsies had all started to shift in their seats when Jack Kelly delivered his patented charisma-infused speeches. The last time he started with one, they ended up in the middle of a bloody strike. And then he betrayed them, came back to their side, and then deserted them as soon as he had a window of opportunity.

For all their smiles and whoops, no one was quite sure of Jack Kelly being as loyal to his boys as they were to him anymore. What kind of leader just up and left once the strike was over—the strike he and that walking mouth Davey had dragged them into? Sure, sure, Jack Kelly was the undeniable king of the Manhattan newsies. Anyone could tell you that. But these days his boys looked into his face and wondered if he was even here in New York for them anymore, if he even remembered the boys that’d stuck by him through it all.

It wasn’t that the newsies didn’t like Davey. They liked Davey fine. He was one of them, even. But they would all prefer it if Jack Kelly’d appreciated them more than some guy he’d known for half a month.

It came up a couple times in casual conversation, when Jack and Davey were out shifting papes and the rest of the newsies had already finished for the day. They sat around a table with poker cards all set up and ready to go, and they didn’t play, but they glanced down at their hands and adjusted their cards all the same.

Jack didn’t play poker. Never did, Race remembers, even before the strike, even before he started taking a shine to Davey. He’d been dreaming of Santa Fe since he was a kid out in the streets, before he got good at shifting papes, and gambling had a tendency to make rich men poor and poor men poorer. And train tickets were no poor men’s game. Jack didn’t dream so much of Santa Fe anymore—Race figured he saw something like the Santa Fe sun in Davey’s eyes—but he still didn’t play poker.

That is to say, Jack had never sat at their round wooden cards table, but the newsies felt his absence all the same. There wasn’t a chair with no one in it, or a hand of cards dealt but untouched, but Jack’s bunk already had a light layer of dust on it. He rarely slept in the boardinghouse with his boys anymore, opting instead for the warmth and comforts of Davey’s place.

If only everyone had some rich friend willing to give up a spot on his sofa.

But they didn’t, which was why they were all playing poker, waiting for Jack to get back. Or at least pretending to play poker, going through the motions so they had a cover to gossip and rant about their miseries.

“Ain’t it funny that Davey’s only been here for a month or two, and Jack’s already taken to him better than anyone?”

Skittery glanced up at Kid Blink, scoffed, and moved a few of his cards around.

“He’s only here for Davey at this point, Blink, don’t kid yourself. Anyways, what kinda leader don’t even care about his boys? What if Davey convinces him his future’s out west after all, and the whole lot of them just leave?”

“All of us’d probably be absorbed by some other Manhattan leader,” Bumlets said, shrugging.

Race didn’t say anything, mostly because up until the strike and Davey he’d been closer to Jack than anyone else. He didn’t quite think he could trust Jack with nothing no more, but he was reluctant to say as much. No one else said anything either. The majority of them had had Jack on a pedestal since he became the leader of the Lower East Manhattan newsies five or six years ago, and the rest just didn’t like announcing the people they were holding grudges against.

The Lower East Manhattan newsies were good kids. Not like the Brooklyn newsies, who were as likely to stab you as they were to sell you a pape. But that didn’t mean they were fools.

“How’s the selling in Sheepshead, Race?”

“Hey, we all knows all the gamblers ain’t got nothing but their clothes and their shoelaces. Race sells in Sheepshead cause he feels right at home!”

Race leaned over to cuff Skittery across the ears, rolling his eyes but grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“Hey, don’t go talking about my esteemed patrons with that tone o’ voice. They ain’t just got their clothes n’ their shoelaces—they got money for papes, too, which is better than you can say!”

“Ay, I sell at the bank. What, them account-owners ain’t got the money for accounts?”

The conversation continued but then slowly fell into a lull, and they sat there emotionlessly in silence until Mush heard Jack’s footsteps approaching the boardinghouse—at which point they started laughing as raucously as they could, slamming their cards down on the table regardless of suit or number and for no good reason at all. Jack strode into the room with a lopsided grin on his face, and they made a show out of greeting him with feigned surprise.

“So who’s the big winner tonight?”

“Who else but Race, bleeding us dry every night?”

“If you keep on at this rate, Race, you’re gonna play me outta the boardinghouse!”

Jack threw his head back and laughed, so everyone else did too. Race felt a slight sliver of guilt in his heart—Jack was at least trying to worm his way back into the hearts of the Manhatten newsies—but then he remembered how Jack sold all of them out for Davey’s safety, and it melted away. Race liked to think of himself as one of the kinder newsies, more willing to forgive and forget, but he couldn’t stand open betrayal like that.

He glanced outside theatrically, gasping in pretend exaggerated surprise at the pitch black sky and the bright, shining moon.

“Well, gentlemen, it’s late, and I figure we oughta be getting to sleep.”

The newsies moaned and howled convincingly, as if any of them were actually invested in the game without players or stakes, but each one handed their hand to Race and scooted the cards on the table toward him in a lazy pile before standing up and leaping into their bunks.  
They’d all just about settled into sleep when there was a loud, violent rapping from downstairs.

“The hell’s that?”

“Jesus, Blink, I don’t know, why don’t ya go check for yourself?”

“Hey, on account a’—”

They all went silent—below, someone with the distinctive Brooklyn accent was arguing loudly with Old Man Kloppman.

“Hey,” Skittery said wildly, his voice raspy and soft, “who the hell’s that? What’s a Brooklyn newsie doin’ all the way up here in our good ol’ New York? We oughta—they ain’t supposed to be up here. We oughta soak him, or somethin—”

“Shut ya mouth,” Kid Blink said, rolling his eyes. “Like Spot Conlon’d ever let us hear the end o’ that.”

“Spot Conlon plays fair,” Jack Kelly said diplomatically, before Race could even open his mouth to defend Spot. “Now be quiet, you delinquents, I’m tryin’ a listen to what they’re sayin’ down there. You don’t wanna miss hearin’ what’s happening down in good ol’ Brooklyn, do ya?”

Every newsie fell into a silent hush as they strained against the wood.

“Look,” said Snipeshooter, pouting and rolling over, “it ain’t like we’re gonna hear anything. Why don’t we just go to sleep? Maybe it’s some kid with Brooklyn parents tryin’ ta bargain for a night here. Maybe he’ll sell real good for Manhattan.”

“Oh, come on, Snipes,” Jack said, grinning widely, “this building’s old as me grandmother. You can hear anything if you really wanna hear it.”

Almost on cue, the voices of Kloppman and the newsie grew louder.

“Hey!” the newsie all but screamed, stamping his foot, “look, now, there’s been some turmoils in Brooklyn, a’right? Now are you gonna let me stay here for half a night before I gotta be gettin’ back to Brooklyn, or no?”

Turmoils in Brooklyn? Race mouthed to Jack, but Jack only made a face of disbelief and shrugged before pressing his ear to the floor again. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, turmoils in Brooklyn. That could only mean one thing—the King of Brooklyn, Spot Conlon, must have had some trouble keeping control of his throne after the strike. Race’s blood ran cold. Like Jack, King of Manhattan, it was established that Spot Conlon was the King of Brooklyn. If he’d really lost his throne—no way, though, Spot Conlon was tough as nails, and Race knew it.

The argument continued for a couple minutes, but in softer tones, and eventually all the newsies pulled themselves back into their bunks and waited in quiet anticipation. Another minute passed, and suddenly the door swung open.

A boy with dirt-smudged skin and his gray plaid newsies cap pulled down over his face trudged in, shaking ashes all over the floor and the bunks. Immediately, yelps of protest flew up, but they were quickly stifled as they stood to approach him. Ash could be cleaned out, whatever. What was important now was figuring out what the hell had gone down in Brooklyn, and why a Brooklyn newsie had been chased all the way to Manhattan.

“So what’s going down in Brooklyn?”

“Spot Conlon finally outta his golden throne—”

“Hey, don’t talk that way, he saved us all a beating, didn’t he—”

“Not before we lost Crutchie—”

“Hey, I’m still here, ain’t I? Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Listen,” the boy howled, “you wanna hear what went down or not?”

They turned to stare, amazed they’d been interrupted.

“Hey,” Mush said, tilting his head, “hey, hey, I recognize you. You’re—you’re Spot Conlon’s second in command, aren’t you? What are you doing in Manhattan?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Race said, leaning against the ladder on one of the bunks and trying to hide his fear. If even Spot Conlon could be dethroned in a single night, it didn’t bode well for any of them, and especially not for Race, considering he sold in Sheepshead most days. All days, if he was being realistic. “So Spot Conlon really got dethroned, then? Well, where the hell is he?”

“He wasn’t—look,” the boy said, a desperate look in his eyes, “I don’t know where the hell Spot Conlon is. In Brooklyn, alive, hopefully, but I don’t fucking know, alright? Some of his boys been organizing, organizing some sort of rebellion. They’ve had it too fucking good, is what it is, you know? Under the previous king, ha, that fucker—”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Race said, frowning. “So what happened in Brooklyn?”

“Spot Conlon’s—Christ, look, I don't know.  He might be dead, he might be alive,” he finally said, exhaling. “But there was a rebellion in Brooklyn, couple a hours ago. Got chased all the way out here.”

Wordlessly, he laid down in the closest bunk, and pulled the thin sheets over his head. The Manhattan newsies stared blankly at his bunk for a couple minutes, and then laid down reluctantly in their own bunks. Evidently they weren’t getting anything more out of him.

 

In the morning, they were all uneasy. Jack Cooper was gone from the Manhattan boardinghouse by dawn, and the Manhattan newsies liked it that way. But word spread fast, and by noon every damn newsie in all of Manhattan and maybe even New York City knew about the rebellion. But Brooklyn had been closed to all of the other boroughs since early morning, and only they knew whether Spot Conlon had really been dethroned or not.

Race, meanwhile, had figured he’d take an off day from selling in Sheepshead and stick to his own side of the bridge for once. If Spot Conlon had really lost his throne, that meant he probably wouldn’t be allowed to sell in Sheepshead anymore, and he’d need to scout out a new place to sell. He trailed around with Boots the whole day, given the younger newsie was prone to darting around Manhattan and hit 50 odd spots over the course of his average day.

He paused, tilting his head up to look at the sun. Jesus, at least that was still there. God knew what was even concrete in the boroughs of New York anymore. Jack Kelly, and now Spot Conlon. It seemed like all the old kings and queens of New York were falling apart.

“Hey, Race.”

“Yeah, Boots?”

“You think—you think old Spot’s really outta the running?”

“Nah, kid, he’s tough,” Race said breezily, trying to keep his mind off the subject. If anyone could be considered Spot Conlon’s friend, it was Race. They were the same age, and he’d known him when he was just another faceless newsie of Brooklyn and not the indomitable Spot Conlon.

“You really believe that, Race?” Boots sounded doubtful at best, and Race couldn’t blame him. After all, from what Spot’s second in command had said yesterday, Brooklyn’s hierarchy had really fallen apart last night. And Boots had good reason to be worried; Brooklyn was the biggest borough, and if Brooklyn was in chaos, so was every other borough.

“Sure, Boots,” Race said.

“Come on, now, Race, gimme the truth. Hey, if I gambled with ya for it, would you take Spot Conlon still bein’ the king?”

Race paused. If he had a choice, he definitely wouldn’t. As much as he wanted to avoid it (and thinking about it), it was starting to look like Spot had been dethroned. But Boots was young, so Race plastered a confident grin on his face and held out his hand to shake. “Sure, kid,” he said, “I’ll take Spot Conlon still being the king if you’ll take Spot Conlon bein’ dethroned and all. Easy money for me, guaranteed.”

“Looks more like I’ll be winning money from you, finally,” Boots said, but he smiled widely, clearly more at ease now that Race had said he’d gamble on it. Quietly,

Race tallied the number of times he’d been wrong when he went with his gut instinct on gambling matters, and wondered whether there was a chance he was wrong on this one.

“You about done sellin’?”

“Yeah. You?”

Race waved his empty palms at Boots, and the two of them turned to walk back to Manhattan.

The boardinghouse was erupted in bright confusion and controversy. The sounds of the newsies shouting over each other and arguing was loud enough to be heard a street away, and it only intensified when Boots and Race walked in. Suddenly, there were half a dozen voices demanding opinions on half a dozen topics, most of which Race had never even heard before, and above all of it Dave and Jack were arguing passionately about something involving—Flushing? Or—Jesus, the commotion was too loud to hear anything.

“Hey! Hey, what the hell’s goin’ on? Ain’t we a pack o’ civilized boys, then, not like them Brooklyn boys?”

“Flushing,” said Jack grimly, perching dramatically on the edge of the table and shooting a look at Race. “Queen of Flushing, Anne Oakes, came to see me this morning. Told me her newsies been whispering about how we’re connected to Brooklyn cause a’ old Jack Cooper comin’ to visit us last night. Said her newsies been real suspicious of us, and she wants to know our motives in dethroning Spot Conlon.”

“So it’s official? He’s dethroned?”

“No one knows,” Dave said, his mouth set in a tight, hard line. “Brooklyn still won’t talk to us. We’ve sent four newsies over—”

“I told ‘em Jack sent me and they just laughed at me until I left,” Crutchie said dejectedly, leaning on his crutch.

“—and they won’t tell us anything.”

“So why’s Flushing coming after us? We oughta soak ‘em, the bums, accusing us of something like that. Where were they when we needed them in the strike?”

“That’s what I’m saying—”

“You gotta think about it from their viewpoint, Jack,” Dave said, gesticulating frantically. “Think about it, Brooklyn’s the biggest borough, right, they’re scared to death about what’s going to happen, just like us—”

“We ain’t scared! We ain’t scared o’ no one, certainly not of Brooklyn. Who won the damn strike? It’s—”

“That doesn’t matter, Jack, the point is, we can’t just—declare war against Flushing. We’re all on edge because of Brooklyn, I get it, but—”

“The hell do you get! You’re some kid with parents and a house, why the hell are ya here anyways—”

“Don’t talk that way about Dave, you don’t get to talk that way about nobody, certainly not about Davey—”

“War? We’re declaring war now? Come on, now, there’s some hot gamblin’ spots in Flushing, don’t tell me—”

“No one’s got time for your wisecracking, Race, this is real serious business, Flushing’s here telling us we got, what’d she say, ulterior motives, like we ain’t flesh and blood kids just like her—”

“Stop!”

Dave, pale faced and biting his lower lip, slammed his hands down on the table.

“Look, arguing like this isn’t going to solve anything. We have to think about what Flushing’s thinking right now. They’re probably scared about Brooklyn. We all thought Spot and Brooklyn were invincible, right? It turns out they aren’t, and now all the boroughs of New York are terrified over it. That’s why Flushing’s spooked. We just have to—”

“Oh, come on, Dave, we ain’t got time for no—whaddya call it—diplomacy, or what’s that. Flushing’s insulting us, is what, and we gotta fight back.”

“How the hell you wanna do that, Jack? Last time you suggested one a your bright ideas like this we all ended up in jail, Jack, you know—”

“Hey—”

“We’re getting nowhere,” Dave pleaded. “Come on. How would you even—how would you even declare war on Flushing? They’re a district. We don’t have a government or anything, and we don’t have leverage against them. It doesn’t work out, Jack. If you want to get back at them, we have to find a better way to deal with them.”

“Like what?”

“Like we…like we find out what really went down with Brooklyn, and we talk to the new leaders. There’s only what, a hundred, two hundred Manhattan newsies? But there’s two thousand Brooklyn newsies. If we can join up with Brooklyn, and then talk to Flushing and Anne Oakes, I’m sure Flushing would be too scared to retaliate.”

“Davey, Brooklyn leaders change every time the wind changes. You seen it. Even Spot Conlon fell.”

“Hey, we don’t know nothing yet,” Race said, feeling uneasy again at the thought of the King of Brooklyn being anyone other than Spot. It didn’t seem right, or fair.

“Anyways, point is we ain’t fast enough to please one before another one rises. They’re killin’ each other over in Brooklyn, ya know, and they ain’t just gonna bow down to prior—prior arrangements. Every single time we’re gonna have to offer new bribes an’ new payment. Come on, let’s just forget about this Flushing business. Like Dave said. We all on edge. Just let them—”

“Come on, is that who we are now? Buncha wet noodles without no, no integrity or convictions? We ain’t like the Bronx now, are we, all bark and no bite, showing our fists to anything that moves but not throwin’ the damn punch?”

“Okay, Jack, so we throw the punch. Then what happens? What, we get a cutesy apology from Flushing and all’s well that end’s well? If you ask me, we oughta be soaking them Flushing boys and girls every time they so much as look at us. That’ll show Anne Oakes.”

“No! Violence doesn’t solve these problems, Itey, we have to talk to them and be careful. If we soak them, Flushing will hate us forever, and they’ll probably soak us right back—”

“Who cares?” Jack crowed raucously, pushing aside stray papers and cards and climbing up onto the table. “Hey, who here thinks we can take Flushing? Who gives a damn if they soak us back, what are we, cowards?”

"Hey, Jack, they knock up your head last time? We're just tryin' ta make a living, Jack, don't want no trouble with Flushing.  I'd rather—rather not even dig into this damned Brooklyn thing.  They wanna kill their king, they do that, but I ain't havin' no part in it!"

"Kill their king?" Dave looked vaguely ill.

"You ain't seen how they do it in Brooklyn, huh? Brooklyn kings are dethroned when they die, and not a damn second before, so it's lookin' like good ol' Spot Conlon finally lost a fight.  Pity, I liked him, but teaches ya what ya get when ya try and control somethin' like Brooklyn."

Race felt sick to his stomach, but he pushed it down.

"Hey, hey," he said loudly, "either way, we don't even know what's goin' on in Brooklyn.  That's the point, right? What's the point o' worryin' about all this? Tomorrow, we're still gonna be goddamn newsies, and we're still gonna carry the goddamn banner like no one else.  Let's play a game of blackjack."

The newsies scattered around the room in various arguments shifted in their shoes, and then they sat down in groups around the wooden table, squirming to get a place.  Jack eyed the table, almost like he wanted to join in, but Jack Kelly didn't gamble, except with his life.  So Race glanced up at him, and when Jack looked away, he dealt everyone their hand and they settled into a game of blackjack while Jack and Dave stood in the corner with nothing much to do.

They passed the night away this way, every newsie calculating quietly how many papes they'd have to shift tomorrow and how fast before they could come back to the house and sleep the rest of the day to make up for a night without sleep.  He'd regret staying up all night playing goddamned blackjack of all things in the morning, Race was sure, but no one spoke of Spot Conlon and Brooklyn again, and maybe it was all worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit shorter than id like (im about 1k words off my mark of 5k but it is the first chapter so whatever). id like to update every saturday but we'll see how that goes lol. anyways thanks for reading i appreciate it!! if you could leave a comment or a kudos that'd be great!!


	2. they're wide awake

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it's been three days and the bridge's still closed? Come on, boys, you gonna keep Sheepshead closed to an old gambler like me forever?"  
  
There were two newsies standing in front of the Brooklyn bridge, and they were burning a hole in Racetrack’s forehead with their glares. The two of them were at least twice Racetrack’s size—Jesus, he’d like to sell papes half as well as they could to be eating that good—and Race wasn’t particularly thrilled about his prospects of getting across the bridge to bet on a horse or sell some damn papes or anything to keep his mind off the whole business.  
  
He hadn't had a chance to really gamble since Brooklyn closed down three days ago. Sure, there's gambling with the rest of the newsies, playing dice and the like, but Race was a considerably better player (and, if he was feeling good, he'd say he's luckier too) than the rest of the boys, having more experience. Horses, though, were unpredictable.

(For the most part.  Curse those horses that keep on winning; it ain't no fun that way, and even their owners know it.)  
  
More so than the whole gambling aspect, Race wanted to know if Brooklyn was even functioning anymore, or if it'd fallen apart without Spot Conlon at the helm. (And, if he was feeling honest, he'd admit he wanted to know if Spot Conlon was okay too. The two of them were both Irish immigrants, after all. They had to look out for each other.)  
  
"We's sortin' out business, Racetrack, Brooklyn business, so you can stay out."  
  
"Hey, hey, I'm desperate here. Come on, I ain't askin' for much, it's not like I'm gonna go looking for Spot Conlon while I'm bettin' on the horses." He sighed and lit his cigar, staring the newsies guarding the bridge in the eye. "Let me through the bridge, huh, just this once?"  
  
"You ain't no exception, Racetrack," the boy on the left growled, taking a step towards him. "You hear that? We've given you enough leeway these days, y'oughtta know, maybe even too much--"  
  
"Alright, alright, fellas," he said, cursing internally and taking a step back. Maybe they'd fought together during the strike, but it was clear Brooklyn didn't think it had any ties with Manhattan at all. He was itching to put down money and watch the horses, but not enough that he'd willingly risk a sound soaking from not one, but two Brooklyn newsies. Say what you will; they were built different. Too many of them had more muscle than anyone could ever do anything with.

  
"So they made you beat it outta there?"  
  
"Turned me away like they was out for blood," he lamented dramatically, orating to Les, who was sitting cross legged in front of Race with his eyes bright. It was the rare occasion when Les and Davey visited them in the old boardinghouse rather than Jack running all the way to their side of town, and Race was basking in Les's enthusiastic hero worship of anyone who could talk like the world spun around them. Race liked to think he was fairly eloquent, as far as it went with the newsies. The rest of the Manhattan newsies were scattered around the room, absorbed in card playing and the like, and the loud sounds of their good-natured banter and arguing was like a wave of pleasant static. "Real tragic. You know, them Brooklyn boys go bad young. Us Manhattan boys, we go sour a bit older. How old's ya brother now?"  
  
"16," Les said automatically, before his face contorted in bright shock and horror. Maybe he followed Jack around like a puppy, but his brother was still his favorite person in the world, for now until forever, probably. "Oh no, Race, you think David's gonna go bad like the Brooklyn boys?"  
  
"Nah," Race said, grinning at Les's gullible reaction, "nah, ya brother's something else, Les."  
  
“So—so is Spot Conlon really dead?”  
  
Race glanced at Les, frowning, and then plastered a thin ghost of a smile on his face. “Nah, kid, don’t worry about him. You’ve met him, right, don’t he seem invincible? Yeah, he’ll be fine, kid.” Jesus, didn’t that sound familiar. He'd been trying to convince an awful lot of folks lately that Spot Conlon was still alive and well, and he couldn't really even convince himself.  
  
“David was upset last night. He said if Spot Conlon’s really dead, then Jack could die too.”  
  
“Hey, kid, Spot Conlon ain’t dead, a’right? He ain’t dead, and Jack Kelly ain’t gonna die anytime soon neither. He's the Cowboy, you know. Don’t stress ‘bout it. Your brother can be wrong too, eh?”  
  
"You got turned away from the Brooklyn bridge again, Race?"  
  
"Speak o' the devil, it's David Jacobs in the flesh. How ya been, Dave?"  
  
Dave frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, this business with Brooklyn is getting on everyone's nerves," he said passionately, shrugging but clearly perturbed. "I just don't--I don't get it. So what, they've changed kings. Why're they keeping all of us out of Brooklyn? I mean, clearly, people like you who sell in Brooklyn are suffering. It's not right, what they're doing, it's not right."  
  
"Hey, I ain't suffering, Davey, no need to throw me into the charity basket," Race said evenly, throwing his dice against the smooth wooden legs of the closest bed as he ticked up numbers in his head more out of boredom than anything else.  
  
"So is they keepin' that bridge closed to everyone or just t' Manhattan, on account o' us harboring ol' Jack Cooper last night? You knows what, Dave, you're right, it ain't fair what they're doin' to us, and it ain't--"  
  
"What, we gonna get into another huge fight right after the strike ends?"  
  
"What's the matter wit' that, we're fightin' for justice--"  
  
"That's real charming, Jack, come back t' us with justice when we can live w'out eatin' papes every other day," Skittery said, rolling his eyes and tapping his cigarette on the side of a bed post. "Anyways, let 'em close off the bridge. What do we care, anyways? We ain't Brooklyn, we's Manhattan."  
  
"We should get to the bottom of this. It's concerning, really. Doesn't Brooklyn pride themselves on being tough? And they close their boundaries for three days in a row now?"  
  
"You're a real Sherlock Holmes, Dave," Race said dryly, mostly to distract himself from the fact that in the past three days it’d become more and more accepted that Spot Conlon was dead and there was surely a new king on the top of the Brooklyn hierarchy.  
  
Race wasn’t sure how close Spot was to him, but Race at least considered Spot a friend, and it was still horrific to think of him as already dead. Sure, sure, on the streets of New York newsies came and went, but flat out dying—that only happened in fucking Brooklyn. 'Course, though, Spot Conlon and his type went looking for trouble, and Brooklyn suited them just fine.  
  
"I'm serious. Think about it. If we don't figure it out, if we're not the ones who figure out what's going down in Brooklyn, then Flushing, Woodside, Richmond--they're all going to believe those rumors Anne Oakes's newsies are spreading! And that's not good for any of us. What if they start soaking us for it? I mean, even if the borough leaders didn't like Spot Conlon, at least they tolerated him. What if the new leader's--"  
  
"You're talking 'bout an awful specific situation, Dave. I says we leave Brooklyn alone. They ain't gonna appreciate it if we's go houndin' after 'em, and those Brooklyn boys ain't exactly the kinda boys we can beat in a soaking."  
  
"Look. We have to. Come on, don't you all operate on--honor? O-or even, even just because they insulted us, didn't they, they were saying we were the kind of kids to try and oust a Brooklyn leader right after he'd helped us. That's what they think of us! That's what Flushing thinks of us. Shouldn't we prove them wrong?"  
  
A soft murmur of agreement spread through the newsies. None of them were older than 20, and bright, moving, golden words like David's curled around their heads and suffocated any dab of common sense. Suddenly, it didn't seem right that Flushing had accused them of something like that. It didn't seem fair. Jesus, they sold papes for a living, starving on the streets and getting no respect at all from people who spent their days reading boring old poems in their armchairs. If even other newsies didn't respect them, what the hell was there?  
  
"Why we gotta go talk t' Brooklyn? Let's soak Flushing!"  
  
"No way! All o' Queens would soak us, and there's more newsies in Queens than Manhattan for sure! We's got more guts, maybe, but they's got more folks, it's just math."  
  
“Math? Never heard o’ it—”  
  
"We can't soak Flushing, don't you see, we'd just be continuing this cycle--"  
  
"So what! So what, they--they insulted us, like ya said, Dave! They don't deserve nothin' but a soaking from the boys o' Manhattan!" Jack clambered clumsily up onto the table, whooping wildly. Race hesitated; it felt like he was being pulled into another strike that would leave him bloody and bruised (and maybe he was). But the newsies around him screamed and whooped and for a moment it felt like everything was alright.  
  
"Look," Dave said with a sigh, "we should at least find out what's been going on with Brooklyn first. Right? Let's--I don't know. We'll--we'll go to Brooklyn Bridge, and we won't leave until they let us through so we can figure out what's been going on these past few days."  
  
Ever since the strike and the rally and the riots and Teddy Roosevelt, of all goddamned things, every day life in New York had felt dull. But here was something that gave them another opportunity to riot, again, something that gave them the opportunity to be wild and free and bold. Brooklyn was closed, and Flushing was being insulting, and as far as they were concerned they were perfect gentlemen, now, concerned with upholding chivalry and honor.  
  
In a glorious wave of people, the Manhattan newsies strolled through the streets, shrieking and leaping over barrels and crates, howling war chants, screaming just to exercise their voices. The summer heat rushed over them, but if anyone noticed it, they didn't mention it. What was heat and stink when you had a modern crusade right before you?   
  
"Hey, hey, what the hell's the commotion around the Bridge--"  
  
"Why's there so many people?"  
  
"What's going on--"  
  
“Jesus, Lord and Savior! Boys, would ya look at that, Brooklyn’s open—”  
  
All at once the newsies rushed forward. If they were a wave before, they were a tsunami now, and they surged as one, all trying to see what was going down at the bridge--a hundred, two hundred Manhattan newsies mixed with hundreds of other newsies with the same damned idea all craning their neck to finally figure out the truth about Brooklyn.  
  
“Can’t believe it—”  
  
“Aw, the bums do it now after we’s all ready to soak Flushing an’ everything—”

"Hey, who's said we's soaking Flushing, I thought--"  
  
“So who’s the new king?”  
  
It took at least an hour to get across the damned bridge, especially with the sheer volume of newsies pushing and shoving each other to try and get ahead. Given all the effort they’d put into finally getting to Brooklyn, it was a bit of a shock for Spot Conlon sitting above a pile of crates and wearing a sour expression to be their very first sight.  
  
Despite an acute sense that he'd pratically sprinted over the bridge for nothing, a violent shock of relief flooded through Race, and he stumbled backwards, exhaling.  
  
“Jesus, what’s that—”  
  
“That the old king himself, Conlon?”  
  
“No way, came all the way here for old news—”  
  
"Listen here," Spot said, using his cane to push himself off the crates and onto solid ground. Instantly, the newsies were silent, hushed by the threat of the most dangerous newsie in all of New York. "all of you. See, I been hearing rumors, while Brooklyn was closed these past few days. Been hearing rumors that the lot of you thought I was dead, maybe, finally defeated. Serves me right, for being king o' Brooklyn and all."  
  
The newsies were silent. He held up his slingshot to the sun, tilted his head to the side, and then readjusted his aim, and shot something just above one of the younger newsies' head.  
  
"Too bad for all of you, ain't it," he said coolly, "because I'm king o' Brooklyn. For now, and forever. There ain't no one, newsie, scab, bulls, no one, in all o' New York who can push me outta Brooklyn, and there never will be."  
  
There really was no one like Spot Conlon, Race mused, staring admiringly up at his silhouette outlined against the slowly setting sun. He turned to look for Jack to see how he'd react, and Race swore there was something like relief in Jack's eyes too. He returned his gaze to Spot, and wondered if anyone would say anything--the quiet cool that Spot had submerged them all in had continued for at least two minutes now.  
  
"Good to hear it, Spot," said Jack, cracking a grin and approaching him with his hand out. "Can't have the golden king o' Brooklyn outta New York, afta' all. How'd we keep all the bulls n' them rotten scabs in line then?"  
  
Spot stared critically at him for a second, squinting as if he was trying to see through Jack Kelly the cowboy, and then smiled and shook his hand. The Manhattan newsies cheered enthusiastically, while the Brooklyn newsies, gathered in a little crowd a couple feet behind Spot, looked vaguely off into the distance without a word. Usually they were just as rowdy in support of their king as anyone, and rowdier, given their penchant for competition and their more violent nature, but something had changed in the three days the bridge was closed.

  
"Christ, that was terrifying," Mush babbled once they were back in Manhattan and the boardinghouse, repeating Spot's lines over and over again until Boots smacked him on the arm and glared at him. "Didja hear 'im, though--there ain't no one who can push me outta Brooklyn--"  
  
"I heard!" Boots shouted, but shuddered, clearly recalling Spot's de facto speech. "We all heard, we was there, and we was half scared to death too."  
  
"I ain't never heard Spot Conlon talk that way," Skittery said, grinding his teeth in anxiety. "I ain't never heard no one talk that way."  
  
"Oh come on, Skittery, you ain't heard no one talk that way 'cause you ain't been anywhere worth being, and anyways when've you heard Spot Conlon even talk before the damn strike--"  
  
"All that and we still don't know anythin' about what's going on in Brooklyn," Crutchie said thoughtfully. "The Brooklyn newsies are real secretive." He turned to Race and grinned, leaning his elbow on his crutch. "Hey, at least you'll be able to sell in Sheepshead now."  
  
Race nodded, trying to pass his glee off as nonchalance. He'd almost lost it the past few days without the sound of horses' hooves and the shouting of the spectators to pass the time as he sold his papes. "Yeah, I guess so. Bet them gamblers'll be mournin' for their money before long, though."  
  
He woke up early the next day, itching for Sheepshead, and set out before most of the other newsies had even woken up. He sold halfheartedly, screaming about the most exciting headlines every few minutes as he watched the horses race across the tracks, kicking up dust in their wakes. He didn't gamble much--he'd basically taken a break from selling for the last few days, after all, and he still needed to eat--but it was good being back in Sheepshead nonetheless. As the sun was beginning to set, he sold off his last few papes and began to wander back to Manhattan.  
  
He stuck his cigar in his mouth, chewing on the end thoughtfully before heading off.  
  
He spotted the dark colored vests and distinctive black bowler hats from a mile off; those were the Delancey brothers up ahead if Race ever saw them. Cursing softly to himself, he pulled himself into an alley and wondered what he ought to do. After all, he'd never gotten into an actual fist fight with them, but he'd antagonized and insulted them just like anyone else, and he certainly didn't want to get into a physical fight with them now.  
  
He groaned and considered his options. Brooklyn knew his usual route by now, and they were still on edge after the whole business--whatever business it was--with Spot and the throne. If he took a detour to avoid the Delancey brothers, they'd probably soak him, but hopefully he could explain the whole situation before they did. And anyways, a soaking was better than being stuck in the Refuge.  
  
Race bit his lower lip, screamed internally, and dashed into a different path to the bridge, praying that none of the Brooklyn newsies were on it.  
  
Just his luck that Spot Conlon himself sat there in his path, inspecting his slingshot and turning over glass marbles in his hand. He turned, saw Race, and narrowed his eyes, but there was friendliness there.  Selling in Sheepshead most of the time, being an Irish immigrant same as him, knowing his name before he became the king; Race wanted to say he had more leeway than most out of district newsies.

(But realistically, this was probably untrue.)  
  
"How ya doing, Race? You stealin' business from Brooklyn?"  
  
Race grinned and shook his head. "Wouldn't dream of it. Not in front o' your face, at least. Say, Spot, how ya been?"  
  
Without much of an invitation, he sat down next to Spot and pulled out his dice from his pockets, shaking them in his palms. "Fancy a game of--"  
  
"--and end up sleepin' in the streets afta you scam me outta all my money? Wouldn't dream o' it."  
  
"Scam ya! Well, that's quite the unfounded accusation you got goin' on there, your majesty. I ain't never scammed no one."  
  
Spot rolled his eyes.  
  
“And anyways,” said Race, with a wicked grin, “you ain’t the king of Brooklyn for nothing, right? You can afford to lose a few pennies here and there to a guy like me.”  
  
“What, guy like you? You ain’t trying to say you’re poor? Come on now, Race, I’ve seen my boys’ pockets turned inside out after they go gambling with you.”  
  
“Well, you know me, your majesty, bet on anything that moves, you lose money pretty quick. Gotta make my money back somehow, right? Come on now, come on now—”  
  
“It ain’t good for a leader to be gambling, anyways,” said Spot, casting a lazy glance at Race.  
  
“Aw, come on, that’s the thing, you leaders all think too highly o’ yourselves. What do those punks say? Pride goeth before the fall? Come on now, come on now, it ain’t nothing but a game of dice.”  
  
All of a sudden there was ice in the air, frosting over. Spot’s mood shifted faster than Race could blink, and now instead of looking over at Race and his dice with an amused, bored expression, his gaze was fixed firmly on something in the distant, sparkling East River.  
  
“You Manhattan boys been having trouble with Cowboy?”  
  
“Who said that? All I wanna do is—”  
  
“—is play dice, right?”  
  
A defiant look sparked in Spot’s eyes, bright and vicious.  
  
“Then let’s play dice, alright? You tell me everything about what’s been going on in Manhattan and what Cowboy’s up to if I win.”  
  
“Hey, what’s this, you think Jack’s tryin’ to scam you or something? Listen, Spot, Cowboy’s a bit of a dreamer, all that gauzy stuff about Santa Fe and the open air and all, but he ain’t that kinda guy—”  
  
“Roll the dice.”  
  
“I ain’t playing a game like this! It ain’t natural, I don’t know what you’re plannin’ or anything, but Jack won’t double cross you, he’s not like that—”  
  
“You Manhattan boys really are loyal to the bone, huh? You's a gambler, so roll the damn dice.”  
  
Race hesitated for a moment, the dice tight in his grasp. He’d rolled them so many times the wooden edges, once sharp and rough, had become worn from handling and rolling, but now they felt cutting. But before he knew it his mouth was forming the sounds for _I’ll shoot_.  
  
“Don’t pass,” said Spot, staring at the dice like he had something to prove.  
  
Race shrugged, and shot the dice towards the side of one of the crates.  
  
_4 and a 3._  
  
A feeling of relief jolted through Race’s heart, and he grinned up at Spot. “4 an’ a 3, add 'em together that’s 7, ain’t it, pass wins by default.”  
  
Spot stared down at the two dice for a long moment in disbelief before distaste and disgust spread across his face, curling the edge of his lip and narrowing his eyes. He stood up, hands balled into fists, and began to walk away.  
  
“Hey, what the hell, come on, your majesty, don’t you owe me somethin—”  
  
“Owe you what, I never said nothin’,” said Spot freely, having relaxed in the split second it took for Race to come up with the words, his hands idling in his pockets and his expression back to a neutral I’m-better-than-you look. “See you around, Racetrack. Go home to Manhattan.”  
  
“Cheat,” Race mumbled, but he didn’t mind it. As Spot walked away, he threw the dice absentmindedly again and again against the wooden crate, knees pulled to his chest. What was the matter with him and Jack Kelly? Jesus Mary and Joseph, he should have made Spot tell him what’d gone down in Brooklyn if he’d won.  It was too late now, though, especially since it looked like he wasn't in the mood for anymore gambling.

Not to mention there was no guarantee Race's miraculous luck would get him through another round.

Better to just go home, then, back to Manhattan and a room full of newsies staring at the door waiting for Jack Kelly to walk through it sans Davey or the kid, fists full of dreams and pamphlets about the Wild West and ridiculous stories about how he'd evaded the bulls again.  Maybe it was better Jack didn't come home today, anyways.  If he came home Race and his dumb honest mouth'd be spilling about how Spot had gambled for the truth and not for money today, and probably cause some trouble that didn't need to be stirred in the first place.

With Manhattan as it was, tense and barely in line though they all pretended to be as loyal and devoted as ever, it didn't seem likely that Jack Kelly could sustain that kind of trouble.

And as much as Race hated how Davey had replaced the newsies for Jack, and as much as Race hated how Jack was never around anymore, never looking out for them, he could never hate Jack Kelly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wake me up inside (cant wake up) i said id update every saturday and then took literally 9 months to update again. i am so sorry sdlfkjsdlkjf. also, i cant remember how old davey is--did they give him a set age? ive put him at 16 but,, idk. also i don't actually know how to play dice .. i read the wikihow article and some other article someone wrote thats it... i'm sorry if this is like not how you play dice sldkfjslkjd


	3. my night dreams & my mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for minor character death in this one !! ! !!! + also violence

"Hey, hey, what's the commotion here?"

"There ain't nothing you needs to know about, Racetrack Higgins, scurry on back to that pitiful hellhole ya call home and be done with it, huh?"

"Hey, come on now, I ain't gonna cause you no trouble, it's just how I am. I'm just curious, is all."

There were a lot of things he could be curious about in this present situation--how he expected to come out of this mess standing and hopefully with minimal bruising and an intact nose, how many hours he had left before the sun set and the boarding house fee went up by a few pennies, how long it would take him to cross the bridge, etcetera, etcetera. But mostly he was curious about why there were four boys all congregating around a single boy collapsed on the ground who didn't look like he could harm a kitten.

Not in that he didn't have the cruelty or guts to take a swing at an animal, or nothing, because Racetrack had seen a lot of "good" boys throw away their morals as soon as money and glory came up on the betting table, more that he looked about to collapse. If he tried to harm anything he might just bowl over and die from the effort of lifting his arms. Call him some sentimental fool, Manhattan ideals too deeply ingrained, but Racetrack didn't like the idea of an unfair fight, and four against one wouldn't be fair if the one was Jesus Christ himself.

And Racetrack could say with ninety percent surety the boy curled on the floor was not Jesus Christ.

"Listen, Race, keep poking that nose o' yours everywhere you go and someday you's gonna get in some awful trouble. Why don't you just tail it outta here before me and the boys lose our patience? We's got business to deal with."

"What, the kid? He ain't gonna move. He ain't gonna do anything, come on now, he looks half dead."

"An' he deserves it," one of the boys hissed, spitting onto the pavement and grinding the heel of his shoe into the dark ground. "Move on, Racetrack, we ain't about t' get into no mess with Cowboy just 'cause you don't know what's good for ya. But in the end we's Brooklyn boys, huh? We ain't the type to fucking shy from a fight, and you's in our territory even if Spot Conlon says you's allowed to be here."

There was a remarkably bitter tone in his voice as he said Spot's name, like he was spitting out the name of someone he wanted nothing to do with. There was none of the typical admiration Brooklyn boys had for their leader, none of the respect and glorification approaching hero worship. Race stared blankly at them.

"What, you all's got a problem with Spot Conlon or somethin--"

He would have finished his sentence with some remark he probably shouldn't have made, but he was saved from that mistake because the boy closest to him immediately punched him in the stomach.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," said Race, staggering backwards, "that ain't--that ain't, what we call civil, now is it."

"What ain't fucking civil is what we's gonna do to you if you won't get some damn common sense in that there brain o' yours and beat it. You's smart, ain't you? Always swindling us boys outta money and dignity with your tricks. Get smart real fast, Racetrack, or you's gonna be dead before you can count to ten."

Racetrack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gulped. "Gentlemen, don't you think you's being a bit overconfident? Ten seconds, ain't that--ain't it, awful short?"

"Get out," the largest boy snapped. "Get outta Brooklyn now. We ain't looking for no trouble with Manhattan, but if you's stay around, we's gonna soak you so fucking bad you ain't never gonna recover."

"You's been saying the same thing for a few minutes now, your honor," said Racetrack, "and I's telling you, I ain't leaving until you's tell me what a gang of four nice respectful boys like yourselves is doin' soaking someone who ain't even all awake."

"You's callling us bluffers? We ain't no fucking bluffers, unlike you Manhattan boys. How's about we soaks you until you's ain't all awake too?"

In hindsight, thought Racetrack as he watched the four boys approach him, there were better things in life to be than curious and attached to ridiculous ideals like a fair fight. And he probably should have just left as soon as they threatened him. Brooklyn boys didn't play around, and they didn't bluff. Ah, well, if they left him bleeding in the streets, at least he could boast about the time he survived a fight with four Brooklyn boys.

If he survived.

Racetrack put up his fists.

"Hey, what the hell do you's think you's doing?"

The four boys in front of him stiffened and froze, but their fists didn't drop. If anything, they tightened their fists, but their glares shifted from Race to someone behind him. Who was speaking; Race recognized that voice, but he couldn't place it, and he didn't dare to turn around in case they took advantage of his temporary distraction to beat him to a pulp.

Footsteps pattered lightly on the pavement, and after a few moments Jack Cooper's small frame came into view. He was wearing the same dark gray newsies cap he had worn when he'd come to the Manhattan boardinghouse a week ago, and factory ash was smudged across his face like always.

The four boys sneered at him, but he looked unfazed.

"You all's lucky Spot Conlon couldn't definitely link you to Mace. Now you's beating up boys Spot Conlon's given the go ahead to to sell in Brooklyn? You's think this the kind of behavior we want to show off to our guests?"

There was a nasty smile on Jack Cooper's face. A week ago in the boardinghouse, he'd seem terrified, vulnerable, and unsure, but now Race could see why he was Spot Conlon's right hand man. Of course, he didn't match up to the boy himself. The tougher boys around New York were aggressive and violent, and their actions could be called vicious, but they themselves didn't have that knife's-edge bitterness and cutting anger that glowed in Spot's face when he felt wronged.

"We's still Brooklyn boys, ain't we?" snarled one of his aggressors. "We's got more rights to be here than some lost Manhattan boy who doesn't know what's good for him and what ain't. We told him to beat it and he wouldn't, so we's soaking him. It ain't no issue."

"Who says you's the ones who decide what ain't an issue?"

Jack Cooper glanced over at the boy on the ground, who still hadn't moved, and made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. "What, you's killed some boy and a Manhattan boy saw it happen, huh?"

Race's eyes widened.

Dead? No, impossible, it couldn't be--

"He ain't dead," one of the boys snapped. "He ain't dead."

Jack Cooper laughed, but his hands were curled into fists and he looked angrier than he'd been when he first arrived on the scene. He had a rough, rural sounding accent that Race hadn't noticed when he'd come to the boardinghouse. "Really, Crash? Looks awful dead to me. He ain't movin', you can't see him breathing, neither. Looks dead to me. Who told you you's could go ahead and kill some other Brooklyn boy? You was already walking on thin ice, and now you's gone and killed some boy. You think Spot Conlon's gonna like that?"

"He ain't dead," repeated a different boy, but he was chewing on his lip.

"I ain't someone who hates violence," said Jack Cooper, his tone clearly furious. "Someone owes you a debt or somethin' and can't pay up, soak em to remind em debts oughta be paid. Not t' mention we all hate Pulitzer and Hearst, no? Better to get into a fight wit' another newsie than to get your ass locked up in jail over some petty scuffle wit' the bulls."

"We ain't killed him, we ain't killed him, how many times we gotta repeat this before you get it through your thick sku--"

Racetrack flinched as Jack Cooper slammed a fist into the left side of the boy who had spoken.

"Really? You ain't killed him, huh, only the four of you's standing here around a boy who ain't moved or breathed since I came here, and you's nearly killed a Manhattan boy just because he was standing here. I ain't hearing any other explanations, am I? Tell me, how'd he end up like that, then, if you ain't killed him? What'd you do t' him, huh, 's he just sleeping? Sleeping on the ground, blood running from his head?"

"We didn't soak 'im that bad," a boy mumbled. "We was just messin' around--"

"The bulls'll get you for this," said Jack Cooper, eyes savagely bright. "If he ain't dead now, he's gonna be. You think they's dumb enough to think this kid ain't dead? He's dead, clear as day, and you's the ones who killed 'im. The bulls'll get you before Spot Conlon can."

Shock registered in their faces.

"Crash, what the hell, what the hell's we gonna do if the bulls really does--"

"Shut the hell up--"

"I'm done shuttin' up, you's really got us into this this time--"

"Hey, who's sayin' it was all me? You--"

"It doesn't matter," said the largest boy, after a few moments of bickering. His voice silenced the other three. "The bulls don't care about 'im. The bulls don't care about none of us, and neither does Spot Conlon. We's nothing to him and the rest of 'em but scum. Why do you think Mace and his boys stopped listening to him? He don't care about us. He'll watch over his real boys, the ones he knows, the ones he grew up with, and he'll even watch over boys that ain't even Brooklyn, but he don't care about us. Ain't no one caring about us but ourselves."

"So you's really are Mace's boys, then. Go and run back to him, there ain't no place in Brooklyn for you."

There was a long silence, and then the four turned and left, disappearing into a side street. Now it was just Race, still frozen to the spot, staring at the body on the ground, and Jack Cooper.

"What the hell," said Racetrack.

"Go home, Racetra--"

"Hey, listen," Racetrack said, "I'm done with this, hear? I ain't goin' home no more, not 'til you Brooklyn boys tell us what exactly been's goin' on in Brooklyn. We ain't dumb. You can't expect us to believe all's normal in Brooklyn forever. Now you's telling me a boy's dead on the ground and you won't even tell me what the hell's happened--"

"Go home, Brooklyn ain't no place for a Manhattan boy like you."

There were clear notes of disdain and irritation shining through his voice, and Racetrack puffed up in indignation almost subconsciously.

"What, we ain't even human to you all's? What, we's horses or somethin'? What's being from Manhattan got to do wit' something like this? Listen, Jack Cooper, we ain't asking for much, we's not askin' you to accept Brooklyn bein'--bein' annexed or something ridiculous or somethin', all we's asking is--what the hell happened in Brooklyn a week ago? But you ain't answering. Ain't it about time? You can't hide it forever."

"It ain't for you to know! Ain't that enough, listen, Racetrack, you's heard me, I ain't against violence--"

"Listen, Cooper, it's in my nature, I'm a curious person, can't help wanting to know what you ain't telling me."

Jack Cooper whipped around, a violent, feral expression splashing across his face. His hands were balled into tight fists, and his back was hunched, his shoulders tight and tense. Without wanting to, Race took a step back, and then steeled his nerves again.

"Take me to Spot Conlon, and tell 'im I wanna know what the hell's been goin' on."

"Go home, you--"

"Ain't you just said a boy's died? Won't he wanna know what exactly's happened and all? I'll tell 'im."

Jack Cooper's eyes narrowed and the two stared at each other motionlessly for more than a minute before Cooper made an angry, dismissive noise with the side of his mouth and motioned for Race to follow him.

They walked through the bustling streets of Brooklyn in perfect silence, the swell of the crowds bubbling in the background. Race's impression of Brooklyn was always--too much. The boys were too violent, too aggressive, too quick to want to start a fistfight, too young, too old, too vicious. The streets were too loud, too bright, too crowded, too flashy, bright signs and banners hanging from third story balconies and waving in your face. The ground was too hard. The skies were too gray.

He'd thought about living in Brooklyn before, selling there instead of Manhattan. When he was younger. When Spot Conlon was just another bitter Brooklyn newsie, and not the king of Brooklyn. But he'd soon adjusted to Manhattan and the Lower East-side boys, with their bright laughs and extensive bickering, had drawn him into their group, and all thoughts of Brooklyn, the borough of extremes, faded like that.

Right now, it didn't feel like Brooklyn was too much. It didn't feel like Brooklyn was anything at all but a background, a setting for what was about to happen.

Still ominously silent, Jack Cooper and Racetrack entered the Brooklyn boardinghouse at the corner of the two main streets, and quietly filed up two sets of stairs. None of the newsies' boardinghouses had rooms or doors; they entered into a room filled with beds stacked on beds and a round table in the center with a few forgotten cards and dice sitting on top.

It looked a lot like the Manhattan boardinghouse, Race thought absently, trying to puzzle out the number of beds in the room and wondering if the Manhattan boardinghouse had more.

"So where's Spot, then?"

Cooper hesitated, and then pointed out a room with a dark door to the side.

"Ah," Racetrack said, grinning and still on the edge of hysterics, "so there's a difference between the kings and us regular folks after all, huh? King o' Brooklyn's got a room all to himself. Hey, now, Cooper, who can blame 'em for wantin' Spot gone? You's get your own room and everythi--"

That day on the bridge, with the sunlight roaring over the East River like the lights lining the streets on the ritzier side of New York, Race had noticed the tightness in the faces of the Brooklyn boys, the reluctance to cheer and whoop for their king. But now, as Jack Cooper's face turned dark and murderous and he all but lunged, it was made clear to Race that at the very least, there were a few boys who would never stray from Spot's side.

"What the hell's you tryin' to say--"

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it's a joke, is all, nothin' more, you know's me--"

The door swung open.

"Spot," said Cooper, blankly.

"I says you can sell in Sheepshead," said Spot, staring at Race, mouth set in a tight line, "and you's end up in the heart of Brooklyn, in the Brooklyn boardinghouse. They ain't exactly close together, Racetrack."

"Crash and his boys killed some kid," said Jack Cooper, before Race could open his mouth and defend his sense of direction. "Found 'em gangin' up on Racetrack because he stumbled on the scene. They was talkin' about--about, about how Mace was right."

"Mace?"

"I told him to get outta Brooklyn, so--"

"--who the hell is Mace?"

Cooper ignored him.

"--so--"

"--who the hell is Mace, what the hell--"

"--so," said Jack Cooper, glaring at Race, "so, he's prob'ly wherever Mace is now."

"That all?"

Cooper blinked once, then twice. He looked like an alley cat caught in traffic, the sounds of horse's hooves and yelling making his eyes wide with confusion, causing his head to tilt at a slight angle. The toughness of the boy who had barked at Crash and his boys so viciously dissipated; it was startlingly clear who had the upper hand in the conversation. All at once Jack Cooper's age of barely over 16 flashed in his face and settled there around his eyes, a smear of youth and naivety.

"Yeah, but ain't you gonna deal with it? He killed someone, Spot, in your territory. In Brooklyn."

Spot glanced at Race, distrust twisting his expressions.

"Ain't Cowboy gonna be missing you? You oughta get back to Manhattan while the sun's still up."

Race's emotions flared with embarrassment and anger. "Hey, we's both honorable newsies, ain't we? I ain't no spy and I ain't no scab, either, so what the hell's that about?"

There was a sharp, bitter toughness to Spot's face--the kickback of a gun, Race wanted to say, but he'd never held a gun in his hands. Only rich men killed each other with guns. Even kings of New York killed each other with switchblades and pieces of metal. But kings like Spot didn't deserve to die like that, Race thought suddenly, thinking about glory and bright lights. Spot, at least, did not quite seem human.

Maybe it was better to just say Spot was like something out of a novel. Leaped to life with a knife in his hand and freckles dotted on his nose from the 5 cent romance novels the newsies found strewn in the street and read to each other, laughing and mocking the language.

But that wasn't right, because he wasn't. Spot was an Irish newsie same as him, not the rich son of a senator dressed in tailored suits, not the laughing, naive boy of 17 fresh from his father's farm, not the clever, charming neighbor or the dashing, dark eyed soldier. He was a newsie. They were all newsies. In a few years they'd both be too old to sell papes and king or no king, they'd be on the same damn footing then.

So Spot wasn't out of a novel. He just wasn't quite human, and that was all.

"You don't need to know--"

"They nearly soaked me in the fuckin' streets for walkin' in their goddamn holy presences, Spot, what the hell are you talkin' about? I'm here whether you like it or not, so you may as well just tell the damn truth!"

"They tried t' dethrone me while the bridge was closed, and Cowboy backed 'em."

Race stared at him.

"What?"

The whole coup situation wasn't entirely surprising. Race had figured as much anyways, but what with the way Spot went on about Brooklyn and being king, he would have expected to see him back to his full vibrancy within days. If it were just a normal attempt at a coup, wouldn't Spot be prancing around with that damn ugly cane already, whooping and flaunting how he'd successfully quashed another one? Wouldn't his boys be screaming, pledging their support forever and always at the top of their lungs? Wouldn't he be waxing dramatic prose about how he was the rightful king even though everyone knew he could only last so long?

But Jack?

For barely half a second, Race considered if it was true. He wondered if Jack really was that kind of person, the kind of person who was easily tempted to betray his friends and family. He'd done it before, he certainly had; there was nothing that could ever erase that day when they saw Jack walking through the gates with his papers and his damn suit from Race's memory. And though the other newsies seemed to mostly have lost their unshaken faith in Jack already, to tell himself the truth, Race never had.

He'd done it before, but even now, Race believed Jack would never do it again. He pushed any doubts he had away.

"You heard what I fuckin' said, Racetrack."

"Jack ain't that kinda guy, what are you talkin' about? He ain't, he's not, loves the sunset and the sky and all that bullshit but he ain't, he's, he's not. He ain't the kinda guy who backstabs you, I swear on me mother's name, he really ain't--"

"You's always defending Jack," Spot hissed, and there was something like hurt in his eyes. Race felt a vague pang of regret, and then pushed it down.

 _Well_ , Race thought,  _should have told me the truth from the start, and this ain't the truth, neither, it can't be, so what the hell's you expectin' from me?_

"I's tellin' you the truth. It ain't the one you wanted to hear, but it's the truth. Whaddaya know about Jack, anyways? He betrayed you before just so he could ride off into the sunset with his beloved Davey, so why? What's he done to gain your trust other than goddamn bein' there? He ain't no king of Manhattan. You's all been the kings of yourselves while he's off laughin' with Davey."

"That was different, Spot, it ain't like that--"

"What the hell's different about it? He's betrayed you before and you still follow him around like a damn puppy. What the hell did Cowboy even do for you's to fuckin' adore 'im like that?"

"He just--"

"He just what, fuck it, Race--"

"He just is," said Race, helplessly. "Come on, Spot, listen, I don't know where you got that information, but it ain't true, can't be, you knows Jack just like the rest of us. That was a one-time thing, Spot, it ain't recurring, he's a good guy, in the end. You know's him, you know's him. He loves playin' cowboy and all. He ain't no traitor, not really."

"I don't know," Spot snapped, "and I don't know Jack like the rest of you's do. All I know's he's been a traitor two times over now, and I ain't seein' his positive characteristics so clearly right now."

"You's known him for years," Race complained. "You's a good judge of personality, ain't you, wouldn't you have realized? Come on, come on, he ain't no scab, he ain't no traitor--"

"Don't talk any more bullshit," Spot spat. "He ain't nothin' but."

"He's not," Race repeated. "He's not, he's not."

There was only one time Race'd ever seen Spot angrier than he was now, and it was when they'd seen Jack in his custom tailored suit and tie with freshly printed papers under his arm.

"If you ain't gonna believe me," Spot snarled, "then go home. Go back to Manhattan and Cowboy if you want."

There was nothing else to say, so Race made some weak joke about knives and backstabbing and left the boardinghouse feeling empty and viscerally upset. God knew for what reason. The Manhattan newsies were still playing cards when he trudged up the stairs.

"Hey, Race, you look like you ain't doing so good."

Race blinked, and then remembered the fight. And the dead boy, and--

"Jesus, Race, what the hell--"

"--is he alright, Race, Race--"

He brought a hand to his mouth, just to make sure he wasn't going to throw up, and then steadied himself on the edge of a bed and took a deep breath.  It was better not to think about the dead boy.  He'd seen corpses in the streets before; New York was cold and relentless.  But not quite like that.

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it, I'm fine."

"Jesus, you don't look fine, Race," said Mush, rushing over to support him. "Hey, what the hell kind of adventures you been getting into in the big wide world? What, you fall onto the Sheepshead tracks and get trampled or somethin'?"

"Well," said Race, taking another deep breath of air in an effort to calm himself, "well, you know's me, gentlemen. The bulls're simply obsessed w' me. Can't leave me alone. Guess I'm a real threat to 'em--"

"Whatever the hell's they's done to you and whoever the hell you's been picking fights with, at least it looks like you can't ever stop Racetrack Higgins from bein' a dumbass," Kid Blink muttered, a slight, crooked grin slipping across his face. The newsies roared with laughter, and Race laughed with them, even if his sides hurt.

Later that night Mush sat next to him on the bed as the rest of the newsies chattered away about how much they'd sold, how much they needed to sell, how much they were out this week and the next if they wanted to buy a new pair of pants. Race glanced over at him, how his hands were twitching and how he was staring into the distance with nothing to look at, and cleared his throat.

"You boys been havin' fun while I was out?"

Mush exhaled.

"Jack was out the whole day again," he said, and Race knew that meant out he'd been out with Davey, probably laughing with Sarah and Les, talking about how the world was theirs. "I don't know. He's been out a lot recently."

"Yeah," said Race, mostly because he didn't want to acknowledge what Mush was really saying. "Yeah, he has."

Mush waited, and other days Race probably would have said something to follow up on that, but tonight he didn't feel like analyzing Jack's behavior too closely, even if it was just to defend him and reassure Mush. There was a slight look of disappointment on Mush's face, but Mush shook his head and it was gone.

"I mean. I don't mean to bog you down, Race, you don't look like you's had the best of days."

"Nah. Nah, you say what you want, it ain't gonna upset me, don't worry about it. We's friends. I ain't gonna let some dumb bruises keep me from hearing you out on whatever."

Mush's eyes said what the two of them were both thinking. It wasn't the damn bruises Mush was worried about. They were just a convenient excuse and an easy way to avoid saying-- _you're the last one who keeps defending Jack. The rest of us have moved on but you're still here, waiting for him to redeem himself, and he ain't a bad person, but he certainly ain't all ours anymore. He ain't ours at all anymore._

But Mush kept talking anyways.

"I just. You know? I really thought he was someone who wasn't gonna leave us in the lurch or anything. Like he was gonna stick to us, you know? When we first met 'im he seemed to really care about us."

"Hey, hey," Race protested, "you can't say he don't care about us--"

"It don't seem like he does! It don't."

"Maybe he ain't around," said Race, already feeling tired of the conversation, "but he cares. He does care."

"It doesn't feel like it," said Mush, every word bright with frustration. "Maybe he does. But these days he spends every damn second with Davey. What are we to 'im? We's stayed with 'im for so long but he ain't here for us, never, now that Davey's there."

"It is what it is, alright?" Race snapped, and Mush recoiled from his sharp tone. "Sorry, Mush."

"S'alright," said Mush, warily, blinking at Race. "I know you've had a long day. It's just--"

He stopped, and sighed. "It's just," he said, starting again, but he didn't get any further than the last time. A scowl flickered across his face, and then disappeared like a flash of gray smoke across his smile-prone face. "I don't know what it is, but I'm tired of it."

_Aren't we all tired of it? We're all tired of it. We're all tired of it, but there's nothing we can do, because we aren't kings, and we aren't Jack Kelly or David Jacobs, and none of us know what anyone is thinking except--we're tired. We're really tired of a world we can't change. When Jack promised us revolution, he promised us change, but we didn't get change._

_And even now_ , Race thinks to himself, as Mush moves back to his own bed,  _you still aren't brave enough to hate Jack Kelly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok .... wow this took a long time to write and i don't .. like it a lot? i feel like it was really repetitive?? i went back to the same "haha race is support jack !!" thread again but idk i mean it does play a purpose + all & im gonna expand on it in later chapters. hopefully the nxt chapter is out sooner bc i really struggled w writing this one but i think the next one will be pretty easy !! ! ok thank yall for reading + im sorry for any purple prose yall spot slkdjfljsk
> 
> also um ... i jumped around a lot writing this chapter like i wrote some parts n then went back to other parts so if smth seems off pls tell me ill fix it huhu


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